Generally, the commentary at the beginning of Love Actually buoys this girl during the holiday season. Haven’t seen it? We can’t be friends. It goes like this:
Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there – fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge – they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling love, actually … is all around.
Holidays can be a bit dour for those of the widowed variety. We paint on smiles, pretend to be festive, and cry in private because everyone has long forgotten. Just when you think you can’t endure another one, you get grandchildren.
The Christmas tree believed it was lodged in storage forever. The nutcrackers’ smiles had faded and the Santa collection that scares the hell out of Baby Chicken considered going all Chucky on me. When the storage doors were opened this year, they danced and came to life as if for the first time.
Grandbear 1 was the first to fill his eyes with the sparkle of lights. All the unbreakable, come hither Christmas attractions were purposefully placed on bottom shelves, making them reachable, playable, magical. Nutcrackers, Santas, toy trains, stuffed stars, and golden orbs reawakened and so did this girl.
Don’t touch rules were disallowed. This is Mémé’s house (of course it’s French, pfft). Even his baby sister, Grandbear 3–I know, there’s four of them-whaaaa?– (Oldest and Middle Chicken are having a contest) filled her giant blue orbs with holiday delight.
Grandbear 2, who two days earlier broke her leg, dragged her electric pink cast to the tree and conversed with him. “Hi Tree,” she exclaimed each and every time she came through the door. Near her visit’s end, she found herself hobble walking with her heavy little cast. I think the nutcrackers, with whom she became fast friends, helped her along.
Her baby brother, Grandbear 4, had little reaction. He is seven weeks old so there’s that.
The big day came and went. Everyone is safely ensconced back home and there comes a call from Middle Chicken. They’re watching the Rose Parade.
Middle Chicken’s little family is enthralled with the parade when Grandbear 2 calls out, “Look, it’s Mémé.” Evidently, I’m riding a horse in the Rose Parade. Because, as all good Mémés do, after they take down the tree and promise him he’ll be tucked away for only a year this time, we travel to Pasadena to ride a horse in the Rose Parade.
And there is the circle. We may not have everyone we love around the tree, but those we get remind us that love actually is all around, non? And every once in a while, a precious child believes you might be riding a horse in the Rose Parade–there’s the magic of Christmas.
The Duchess Diaries 